Midnight, the Crew's Quarters

HARPOONEERS AND SAILORS.

HARPOONEERS AND SAILORS.

(Foresail rises and discovers the watch standing, lounging, leaning, and lying in various attitudes, all singing in chorus.)

(The foresail rises, revealing the watch standing, lounging, leaning, and lying in various positions, all singing together.)

1ST NANTUCKET SAILOR. Oh, boys, don’t be sentimental; it’s bad for the digestion! Take a tonic, follow me!

1ST NANTUCKET SAILOR. Oh, boys, don’t get sentimental. It’s bad for your digestion! Take a tonic and follow me!

(Sings, and all follow.)

(Sings, and everyone follows.)

MATE’S VOICE FROM THE QUARTER-DECK. Eight bells there, forward!

MATE’S VOICE FROM THE QUARTERDECK. Eight bells up there at the bow!

2ND NANTUCKET SAILOR. Avast the chorus! Eight bells there! d’ye hear, bell-boy? Strike the bell eight, thou Pip! thou blackling! and let me call the watch. I’ve the sort of mouth for that—the hogshead mouth. So, so, (thrusts his head down the scuttle,) Star-bo-l-e-e-n-s, a-h-o-y! Eight bells there below! Tumble up!

2ND NANTUCKET SAILOR. Stop the singing! Eight bells! Do you hear, bell-boy? Strike eight bells, Pip, you little black boy! Then let me call the watch. I have the right mouth for it, a mouth as big as a barrel. There, there, (thrusts his head down the hatch,) Star-bo-l-e-e-n-s, a-h-o-y! Eight bells down there! Get up here!

DUTCH SAILOR. Grand snoozing to-night, maty; fat night for that. I mark this in our old Mogul’s wine; it’s quite as deadening to some as filliping to others. We sing; they sleep—aye, lie down there, like ground-tier butts. At ’em again! There, take this copper-pump, and hail ’em through it. Tell ’em to avast dreaming of their lasses. Tell ’em it’s the resurrection; they must kiss their last, and come to judgment. That’s the way—that’s it; thy throat ain’t spoiled with eating Amsterdam butter.

DUTCH SAILOR. Great sleeping tonight, mate. It’s a fine night for it. I’ve noticed something about our old Mogul’s wine. It makes some people sleepy, just as it makes others lively. We sing, and they sleep. Yes, they lie there like barrels in the bottom row of a ship’s hold. At them again! Here, take this copper pump and shout to them through it. Tell them to stop dreaming of their sweethearts. Tell them it’s the resurrection. They must give their sweethearts one last kiss and come to judgment. That’s the way, that’s it. Your throat hasn’t been ruined by eating Amsterdam butter.

FRENCH SAILOR. Hist, boys! let’s have a jig or two before we ride to anchor in Blanket Bay. What say ye? There comes the other watch. Stand by all legs! Pip! little Pip! hurrah with your tambourine!

FRENCH SAILOR. Listen, boys! Let’s have a dance or two before we anchor in Blanket Bay. What do you say? Here comes the other watch. Everyone, get ready to dance! Pip! Little Pip! Let’s hear your tambourine!

PIP. (Sulky and sleepy.) Don’t know where it is.

PIP. (Sulky and sleepy.) I don't know where it is.

FRENCH SAILOR. Beat thy belly, then, and wag thy ears. Jig it, men, I say; merry’s the word; hurrah! Damn me, won’t you dance? Form, now, Indian-file, and gallop into the double-shuffle? Throw yourselves! Legs! legs!

FRENCH SAILOR. Beat your belly, then, and wag your ears. Dance, men, I say. Let's be merry. Hurrah! Damn me, won't you dance? Now, form a single file and gallop into the double-shuffle. Throw yourselves into it! Legs! Legs!

ICELAND SAILOR. I don’t like your floor, maty; it’s too springy to my taste. I’m used to ice-floors. I’m sorry to throw cold water on the subject; but excuse me.

ICELAND SAILOR. I don’t like your floor, mate. It’s too springy for my taste. I’m used to ice floors. I’m sorry to throw cold water on the subject, but excuse me.

MALTESE SAILOR. Me too; where’s your girls? Who but a fool would take his left hand by his right, and say to himself, how d’ye do? Partners! I must have partners!

MALTESE SAILOR. Me too. Where are your girls? Only a fool would shake his own hand and ask himself, how are you? Partners! I must have partners!

SICILIAN SAILOR. Aye; girls and a green!—then I’ll hop with ye; yea, turn grasshopper!

SICILIAN SAILOR. Yes, girls and a grassy field! Then I’ll dance with you. I’ll turn into a grasshopper!

LONG-ISLAND SAILOR. Well, well, ye sulkies, there’s plenty more of us. Hoe corn when you may, say I. All legs go to harvest soon. Ah! here comes the music; now for it!

LONG-ISLAND SAILOR. Well, well, you sulky fellows, there are plenty more of us. Hoe corn while you can, I say. All legs go to harvest soon. Ah! Here comes the music. Now let’s go!

AZORE SAILOR. (Ascending, and pitching the tambourine up the scuttle.) Here you are, Pip; and there’s the windlass-bitts; up you mount! Now, boys! (The half of them dance to the tambourine; some go below; some sleep or lie among the coils of rigging. Oaths a-plenty.)

AZORE SAILOR. (Climbing up and tossing the tambourine through the hatch.) Here you go, Pip. There are the windlass-bitts. Climb up! Now, boys! (Half of them dance to the tambourine. Some go below. Some sleep or lie among the coils of rigging. Plenty of swearing.)

AZORE SAILOR. (Dancing) Go it, Pip! Bang it, bell-boy! Rig it, dig it, stig it, quig it, bell-boy! Make fire-flies; break the jinglers!

AZORE SAILOR. (Dancing) Go for it, Pip! Bang it, bell-boy! Rig it, dig it, stig it, quig it, bell-boy! Make fireflies. Break the jinglers!

PIP. Jinglers, you say?—there goes another, dropped off; I pound it so.

PIP. Jinglers, you say? There goes another one, fallen off because I pound it so hard.

CHINA SAILOR. Rattle thy teeth, then, and pound away; make a pagoda of thyself.

CHINA SAILOR. Then rattle your teeth and keep pounding. Turn yourself into a pagoda.

FRENCH SAILOR. Merry-mad! Hold up thy hoop, Pip, till I jump through it! Split jibs! tear yourselves!

FRENCH SAILOR. Wild with joy! Hold up your hoop, Pip, until I jump through it! Split, jibs! Tear yourselves apart!

TASHTEGO. (Quietly smoking.) That’s a white man; he calls that fun: humph! I save my sweat.

TASHTEGO. (Quietly smoking.) That’s a white man. He calls that fun. Humph! I’d rather save my sweat.

OLD MANX SAILOR. I wonder whether those jolly lads bethink them of what they are dancing over. I’ll dance over your grave, I will—that’s the bitterest threat of your night-women, that beat head-winds round corners. O Christ! to think of the green navies and the green-skulled crews! Well, well; belike the whole world’s a ball, as you scholars have it; and so ’tis right to make one ballroom of it. Dance on, lads, you’re young; I was once.

OLD MANX SAILOR. I wonder if those cheerful lads think about what they’re dancing over. “I’ll dance over your grave, I will.” That’s the bitterest threat from those women of the night who battle headwinds around street corners. O Christ! To think of the green fleets and their green-skulled crews! Well, well, perhaps the whole world is a ball, as you scholars say. So it’s right to make a ballroom of the whole world. Dance on, lads, you’re young. I was once.

3D NANTUCKET SAILOR. Spell oh!—whew! this is worse than pulling after whales in a calm—give us a whiff, Tash.

THIRD NANTUCKET SAILOR. Time for a break! Whew! This is worse than rowing after whales in a calm. Give us a puff, Tash.

(They cease dancing, and gather in clusters. Meantime the sky darkens—the wind rises.)

(They stop dancing and gather in groups. Meanwhile, the sky darkens and the wind picks up.)

LASCAR SAILOR. By Brahma! boys, it’ll be douse sail soon. The sky-born, high-tide Ganges turned to wind! Thou showest thy black brow, Seeva!

LASCAR SAILOR. By Brahma! Boys, we’ll soon have to take down the sails. The Ganges at high tide, born in the sky and turned to wind! You’re showing your dark brow, Seeva!

MALTESE SAILOR. (Reclining and shaking his cap.) It’s the waves—the snow’s caps turn to jig it now. They’ll shake their tassels soon. Now would all the waves were women, then I’d go drown, and chassee with them evermore! There’s naught so sweet on earth—heaven may not match it!—as those swift glances of warm, wild bosoms in the dance, when the over-arboring arms hide such ripe, bursting grapes.

MALTESE SAILOR. (Reclining and shaking his cap.) It’s the waves. The whitecaps are dancing a jig now. Soon they’ll shake their tassels. If only all the waves were women! Then I’d drown and dance with them forever! Nothing on earth is so sweet. Even heaven may not match it! Nothing is so sweet as those quick glimpses of warm, wild breasts in the dance, beneath the arch of raised arms. Those arms hide such ripe, bursting grapes.

SICILIAN SAILOR. (Reclining.) Tell me not of it! Hark ye, lad—fleet interlacings of the limbs—lithe swayings—coyings—flutterings! lip! heart! hip! all graze: unceasing touch and go! not taste, observe ye, else come satiety. Eh, Pagan? (Nudging.)

SICILIAN SAILOR. (Reclining.) Don't tell me about it! Listen, lad. Limbs quickly intertwining, bodies swaying, teasing, fluttering! Lips, hearts, hips, all brush against each other. Constant touching and pulling away! No tasting, mind you, or you'll have your fill. Eh, Pagan? (Nudging.)

TAHITAN SAILOR. (Reclining on a mat.) Hail, holy nakedness of our dancing girls!—the Heeva-Heeva! Ah! low veiled, high palmed Tahiti! I still rest me on thy mat, but the soft soil has slid! I saw thee woven in the wood, my mat! green the first day I brought ye thence; now worn and wilted quite. Ah me!—not thou nor I can bear the change! How then, if so be transplanted to yon sky? Hear I the roaring streams from Pirohitee’s peak of spears, when they leap down the crags and drown the villages?—The blast! the blast! Up, spine, and meet it! (Leaps to his feet.)

TAHITAN SAILOR. (Reclining on a mat.) Hail the holy nakedness of our dancing girls! Hail the Heeva-Heeva! Ah, Tahiti, veiled low and crowned with tall palms! I still rest on your mat, but the soft soil beneath it has slipped away! I saw you woven in the woods, my mat! You were green the first day I brought you from there. Now you are completely worn and wilted. Ah, neither you nor I can bear the change! How would we fare, then, if we were transplanted to that sky? Do I hear the roaring streams from Pirohitee’s peak of spears? Do I hear them as they leap down the cliffs and drown the villages? The blast! The blast! Straighten your spine and face it! (Leaps to his feet.)

PORTUGUESE SAILOR. How the sea rolls swashing ’gainst the side! Stand by for reefing, hearties! the winds are just crossing swords, pell-mell they’ll go lunging presently.

PORTUGUESE SAILOR. How the sea crashes against the side! Get ready to reef the sails, mates! The winds are just crossing swords. Soon they’ll be lunging wildly at each other.

DANISH SAILOR. Crack, crack, old ship! so long as thou crackest, thou holdest! Well done! The mate there holds ye to it stiffly. He’s no more afraid than the isle fort at Cattegat, put there to fight the Baltic with storm-lashed guns, on which the sea-salt cakes!

DANISH SAILOR. Crack, crack, old ship! As long as you crack, you hold together! Well done! The mate is pushing you hard. He’s no more afraid than the island fort at Cattegat. That fort stands there to fight the Baltic with guns battered by storms and crusted with sea salt!

4TH NANTUCKET SAILOR. He has his orders, mind ye that. I heard old Ahab tell him he must always kill a squall, something as they burst a waterspout with a pistol—fire your ship right into it!

4TH NANTUCKET SAILOR. He has his orders, remember that. I heard old Ahab tell him he must always kill a squall. It’s like bursting a waterspout with a pistol. Fire your ship right into it!

ENGLISH SAILOR. Blood! but that old man’s a grand old cove! We are the lads to hunt him up his whale!

ENGLISH SAILOR. Damn! That old man is a great fellow! We’re the boys to help him hunt down his whale!

ALL. Aye! aye!

ALL. Yes! Yes!

OLD MANX SAILOR. How the three pines shake! Pines are the hardest sort of tree to live when shifted to any other soil, and here there’s none but the crew’s cursed clay. Steady, helmsman! steady. This is the sort of weather when brave hearts snap ashore, and keeled hulls split at sea. Our captain has his birthmark; look yonder, boys, there’s another in the sky—lurid-like, ye see, all else pitch black.

OLD MANX SAILOR. How the three pines shake! Pines are the hardest trees to keep alive when moved to different soil. And here there’s only the cursed clay of the crew. Steady, helmsman! Steady. This is the kind of weather that breaks brave hearts on land and splits ship hulls at sea. Our captain has his birthmark. Look over there, boys, there’s another in the sky. It’s a fiery color, you see, and everything else is pitch-black.

DAGGOO. What of that? Who’s afraid of black’s afraid of me! I’m quarried out of it!

DAGGOO. So what? Anyone afraid of black is afraid of me! I’m carved from it!

SPANISH SAILOR. (Aside.) He wants to bully, ah!—the old grudge makes me touchy (Advancing.) Aye, harpooneer, thy race is the undeniable dark side of mankind—devilish dark at that. No offence.

SPANISH SAILOR. (Aside.) He wants to bully me, huh! The old grudge makes me touchy. (Advancing.) Yes, harpooneer, your race is undeniably the dark side of mankind. Devilishly dark, at that. No offense.

DAGGOO (grimly). None.

DAGGOO (grimly). None.

ST. JAGO’S SAILOR. That Spaniard’s mad or drunk. But that can’t be, or else in his one case our old Mogul’s fire-waters are somewhat long in working.

ST. JAGO’S SAILOR. That Spaniard is mad or drunk. But he can’t be drunk, unless our old Mogul’s liquor is unusually slow to take effect on him.

5TH NANTUCKET SAILOR. What’s that I saw—lightning? Yes.

5TH NANTUCKET SAILOR. What did I see? Lightning? Yes.

SPANISH SAILOR. No; Daggoo showing his teeth.

SPANISH SAILOR. No, Daggoo is showing his teeth.

DAGGOO (springing). Swallow thine, mannikin! White skin, white liver!

DAGGOO (leaping). Swallow yours, little man! White skin, coward!

SPANISH SAILOR (meeting him). Knife thee heartily! big frame, small spirit!

SPANISH SAILOR (meeting him). I'll stab you good! Big body, little courage!

ALL. A row! a row! a row!

ALL. A fight! A fight! A fight!

TASHTEGO (with a whiff). A row a’low, and a row aloft—Gods and men—both brawlers! Humph!

TASHTEGO (with a puff). A fight below, and a fight above. Gods and men, both are brawlers! Humph!

BELFAST SAILOR. A row! arrah a row! The Virgin be blessed, a row! Plunge in with ye!

BELFAST SAILOR. A fight! Oh, a fight! Bless the Virgin, a fight! Jump in!

ENGLISH SAILOR. Fair play! Snatch the Spaniard’s knife! A ring, a ring!

ENGLISH SAILOR. Fair play! Grab the Spaniard’s knife! Form a ring, a ring!

OLD MANX SAILOR. Ready formed. There! the ringed horizon. In that ring Cain struck Abel. Sweet work, right work! No? Why then, God, mad’st thou the ring?

OLD MANX SAILOR. Already formed. There! The ring of the horizon. In that ring, Cain struck Abel. Good work, right work! No? Then why, God, did you make the ring?

MATE’S VOICE FROM THE QUARTER-DECK. Hands by the halyards! in top-gallant sails! Stand by to reef topsails!

MATE’S VOICE FROM THE QUARTERDECK. Crew, get to the halyards! Bring in the topgallant sails! Get ready to reef the topsails!

ALL. The squall! the squall! jump, my jollies! (They scatter.)

ALL: The squall! The squall! Move, my friends! (They scatter.)

PIP (shrinking under the windlass). Jollies? Lord help such jollies! Crish, crash! there goes the jib-stay! Blang-whang! God! Duck lower, Pip, here comes the royal yard! It’s worse than being in the whirled woods, the last day of the year! Who’d go climbing after chestnuts now? But there they go, all cursing, and here I don’t. Fine prospects to ’em; they’re on the road to heaven. Hold on hard! Jimmini, what a squall! But those chaps there are worse yet—they are your white squalls, they. White squalls? white whale, shirr! shirr! Here have I heard all their chat just now, and the white whale—shirr! shirr!—but spoken of once! and only this evening—it makes me jingle all over like my tambourine—that anaconda of an old man swore ’em in to hunt him! Oh, thou big white God aloft there somewhere in yon darkness, have mercy on this small black boy down here; preserve him from all men that have no bowels to feel fear!

PIP (crouching under the windlass). Fun? Lord help us if this is fun! Crish, crash! There goes the jib-stay! Blang-whang! God! Duck lower, Pip, here comes the royal yard! It’s worse than being in the wind-tossed woods on the last day of the year! Who’d go climbing for chestnuts now? But there they go, all cursing, and here I am, not cursing. Fine prospects for them. They’re on the road to heaven. Hold on tight! Jimmini, what a squall! But those chaps there are worse yet. They’re white squalls, they are. White squalls? White whale, shirr! shirr! I just heard all their talk, and the white whale came up only once! Shirr! shirr! And only this evening, that anaconda of an old man made them swear to hunt him! It makes me jingle all over like my tambourine. Oh, you big white God up there somewhere in that darkness, have mercy on this small black boy down here. Protect him from all men who have no guts to feel fear!